dorm 221b
by Saskia2406
Summary: sherlock and john are in high school, sherlock is struggling with his life at the boading school and his interfering brother while john is at his prime time, but what happens when sherlock keeps finding poems around school? and what happens when jim walks back into sherlocks life? first fic : rated m for adult themes, more inside


_**Found on a piece of paper, common room**._

We were under the bridge with the usual suspects drinking out of paper bags covering name brands as we passed the bottles around to tell each other secrets but I had excused myself before it was my turn so that they skipped my confession because even amongst friends, laughing and finding each other in a double vision blur there were places I would rather be, or not but that choice was taken from me by her and the selfish way she stole my dreams to bring her peace while I am left to toil in painted faces, smiling as I stood back with the others still sitting on the ground in rapture and it's hard enough to fake when no part of you belongs here, even they know but you lag behind anyway through those days when you're scared of what would happen if you were ever left alone with nothing there but time.

My fingers wrapped themselves around the crinkled paper and straightening it out to see the phantom-blue ink staining it's corners and lines. The letters slanted, messy, rushed. Obviously. Any idiot here _should _be able to see that. Unfortunately they all have the knowledge of a single celled microbe. Left-handed, shaking, drank tea today, no sugar. Plays sport, played today, outside. Has trouble sleeping. Third piece of writing I've found from the unknown writer. I stuff the paper in my pocket as the voices creep upon me.

'oh look, here's the freak, want another beating you filthy _animal_?' I didn't even need to hear his voice know which imbecile it was. Uneven breathing, the impatient tapping of his foot, porn addict, a self absorbed idiot. Anderson.

' I would love to join you in such a mind destroying task, but I have to go inform Jason that you've been hanging out with his girlfriend behind the monkey bars, and really, we all know that what happens there isn't just swapping test answers. Oh wait, no need to, it seems he's already here. Seeing as though I might as well head off, have a nice day, try not to kill the little that is remaining of you brain cells, you might actually need them.' I turn ferociously to exit the door, but the squished up face of that fool was stopping me. I should have seen it, the weight in his stance changing, the muscles in his face tightening, I should have ducted but instead a pain shot through my face as I stagger back.

'what did you say you cock sucker' he spits at me, throwing another hit at me. And another and another before-

'And what in gods name do you call this? Anderson you bloody idiot, you're fucking glad you got on the team so get your hands off of Holmes now before I fucking kick your ass out' a voice bellows out and runs through Anderson as he stops mid-punch. He turns to face the other boy.

'Sorry captain, won't happen again' he says, voice tense, lying. He stalks off, Jason, whom had remains silent the entire time, hesitantly followed him, leaving me with a clear view of the boy shaking his head at the ground, fists clenched. Angry, controlled, history of violence, nerves of steel. Not a compleat idiot, not self obsessed. Plays sport, _obviously._ I gather myself and use my elbows to push up against the floor, wobbling a bit as a stand, closing my eyes and wiping the blood from my nose as the boy realizes I'm still here and quickly rushes to my aid. He places a hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off.

'don't touch me if you want to keep your hands.' I hiss, I turn to face him.

'Alright, alright, calm down, just wondering if you're okay...' he says, raising his hands up in a retreating sign as I push past him and stalk off to my room. I close the door and slide down the back of it, feeling the bruises form under skin...

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_**Found on the oval**_

I am scared of that closed door,

The one that is untouched,

Closed constantly,

But unlocked and

In our home.

The room behind that door,

Is one that,

Mother avoids,

And my sister cries in.

Since you left us,

That room means so much,

It used to be your space,

And now its out of place,

In a world,

Where you no longer

Exist.

Since your death,

Your room

Is all of you that's left.

Another note, I'm finding them more now. They are hidden amongst the shadows in forgotten places. They are always rushed when being written. Who is writing these? Who dammit! The same pen, same stroke lines... The same _everything..._ Who...

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_**Found in the biology lab**_

I leant down and kissed my knees, heartfelt apologies for the years spent scraping them on floorboards and pavements begging for a kind stranger to take these decisions from my hands because this walking dread in the soles of my feet had a pulse of it's own, taking me with it to familiar lands where I stand stuttering deceit to questions I have no answer for except 'I'm sorry' because they had expected more of me, wanted something better but instead they got this, whatever this is and as they fight the disappointment appearing behind sympathetic eyes I slip back into the grey shadows on the room, safe, where there are nothing but walls between me and the truth until they begin to shrink into me so that I might become hardened, weathered yet sturdy because I won't last much longer if I don't stop my heart, not from beating but sinking and falling apart.

Stuck under a beaker full of water, the distinctive blue ink threatening to run from the liquid, I save it and put it between the pages of my text book and take my seat at the front of the class. The flood of people rush through the door. First with the girls whom spend far too much time on their hair, only doing biology because they were forced to if they wanted to pass this year. Then the girls who really didn't care were soon followed by the majority of the football team, loud obnoxious laughter and crashing through doors. They take their places, loudly. I feel something being thrown at me, paper. I turn to face the twisted grins of the boys a few rows up as they laugh at the immature action.

'You like that freak?' one says.

'Yeah freak, want some more-' the boy was cut off from the familiar voice of the captain of the team, one John H Watson. The boy who had stopped that idiot Anderson from beating me to a pulp. The past few days I have been able to stay clear from the both of them. He was just the same as them anyway. All stupid, useless, idiots.

'One more piece of paper and I'll stuff it down your mouth, understood?' he says, glaring at the crowd that surrounded the tables and chairs.

'Yes, _captain'_ they pull out the word, despised, they didn't like him, he didn't care. I began to turn to face the blank board ahead of me when John caught my eyes. He was staring straight at me, a grin from either side of his face shining right at me. I could feel the heat rushing to my face, my stomach tightening. I felt as if the entire world had slowed down, what was this _feeling?_ It felt as though every particle in my body wanted to run up and hug that poor boy right here and now. And to make matters worse, he winks, WINKS! Is this person insane? Utterly mad? And then he just walks off, as if nothing has happened... Is that what all people do? Surely not. They don't just wink at someone... What does a wink even mean? I gather myself quickly as Mr. Taylor walks, more or so, storms in announcing a new assessment task. That will get my mind off things, for now. If it isn't half as mind numbing as he describes.

_30 minutes later..._

'I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY, IM NOT WORKING WITH _HIM' _my voice seemed to raise to a yell without my acknowledgment. Mr. Taylor doesn't care what I say either...

'everyone has to work with partners Mr. Holmes, you're lucky Watson kindly agreed to work with you, now go do your work _with_ Mr. Watson.' he says, lifting me the assessment task. I rip it from his hands and storm from the door to stalk out behind the building and rip out a smoke. Leaving my so called _partner _and class behind me.

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_**Found in the change rooms**_

The look she gave me when

He yelled in her face,

Eyes full of tears

And unspoken secrets,

It made me cry,

Because I could see why,

But tell no one,

Because she would never

Stand up to him,

Even now,

When she had a

Half-closed,

Black eye.

I could hear the grim laughter and running footsteps drifting away from earshot as I pull my bloody body up from the tiles, gripping tightly onto the crumpled paper in my hands. I hold myself up against the wall, fumbling with one hand to lift my bag when I hear more footsteps closing in on me before stopping, I don't look up, just breathe out a disturbing laugh, even for me.

'Come to Finnish me off?' I spit as I begin to look up, reviling one stunned John Watson. Could this day get any better?

'Who did this to you' he asks, voice strained, tense. Fists clenched. Angry.

'It doesn't matter.' I say, heaving my body off the wall trying my hardest not to end up face-first in front of him.

'Yes it does, so tell me, who did this so I can personally hurt them.' he says, pissed off now.

'It really doesn't, if you don't mind, I have an essay to write.' I attempt to push past him, but strong arms pull me back and sit me on a bench. I look up to see John's sky blue eyes tracing my body.

'Yes, it really does and I'm not letting you go until you tell me who do this and let me take a look, okay?' he's staring right through me now, feeling almost as vulnerable as I did when Mycroft had found my stash of drugs. Being away from him and having successfully ignored all calls and emails I can keep the small amount hidden from teachers and students. I nod looking at my feet as he brushes his fingers over my bruising skin. Hesitantly lifting my chin, inches away from his mouth, his breath brushing against my cheeks. I run my eyes over his face, the frowning lines on his forehead. Stress marks in his eyes. Old scars. He's wearing a knitted jumper, nothing underneath. I follow the lines down the nape of his neck to the border of his jumper and skin. A faint scar on his left shoulder, staring at me. Old, he was young, frightened, tried to stop the cut from being any deeper. He can see me looking at it and he coughs as he lifts himself away from me, standing awkwardly.

'you haven't broken any bones, but you should, um... Get cleaned up and see the nurse...' he shifts slightly. He avoids my eye contact. I lift myself up.

'well, um... Thanks' I say, the word seeming so alien coming from my mouth. I straitened up 'We should probably also do our biology assessment. I'll be at the library tomorrow at 5 if you want to come.' I continue, getting up and walking slowly to the door way, peering back at the boy who was looking up at me with the exact same grin he had on this morning, did he just blow in here from another universe because every spare inch of his face blew out into a full on giggle fit, threatening smile. I had to leave before my face turned into a mixture of heated cheeks and a vocal keyboard smack. I nod and quickly rush off.

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_**Found under the doors to the boys dorm rooms.**_

I wish I had faith to lose but the bits of it I'm clinging to barely make a handful and every time I allow myself to be held, or to touch another's skin my beliefs lose meaning until it becomes an hour, one more and continues on, like me giving myself away to cruel arms outstretched and leaving residues of hope at their fingertips to wipe them off on my winter jumper so that I can wear it's demise in style because no one sees what's underneath as long as you remember to smile, even with dead eyes and sunken sleepless circles around them but they'll take what I tell them because either they're frightened by my darkness, don't care or have enough foolish faith stored up for both of us that it will all turn out fine, a part of a divine plan whilst on their knees praying because they couldn't understand.

I bend down and pulled out the old mole skin note book, holding all the little pieces of paper that have been stained with the blue inked word. Flipping through each one until I found a new page to place one to my collection. Running my fingers over the paper, it was new, only a few minutes old. The writer must be male, the girls aren't allowed anywhere here. That eliminated at least half of the people here. I get up and walk down the hall to my room. I open the old wooden door and slip into my room. I drop my bag to the floor and face the mirror hanging on the back of the door. My pale skin bruising easy. I sigh and pull off my blazer and walk to my bed and pull out my violin and let the melody ease my thoughts as the notes carry me away.

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_**Found in the doorway of the library.**_

It's finally gone, that lingering scent of sadness that had been creeping up these solitary walls since the start of a new year spent sitting in hospital chairs waiting for your last breath to paint relief on our cheeks because you were too proud to be taken care of, we wished for a long time that you would wake up and ask us for a smoke but you didn't, when we got home there was nothing but the ghosts of your past collections sitting on shelves and cluttering our minds with the notion that you were coming back until reality scooped up our hopes and fed them to another bedside family watching over their loved ones, it's gone, you're gone but we haven't and sometimes she still cries for you around your set meal times, particularities that you had carried ever since you were a boy, walking barefoot across bog lands to school because you only had one pair of shoes.

'Hey, Holmes, over here.' John's voice pulls my focus to him. He's sitting at the table near the window, his bright blue eyes staring at me as his unbelievably huge grin is staring at me too. His arm is up stretched, waving for me to join him. I push the paper into my pocket and breath in deeply as I walk over to join him.

'You're early' I say, taking my seat away from him and pulling out the text book and note pad from my bag. I glance up to see him doing the same.

'Yeah, well, training finished early and I don't want to be late' he says, smiling still. I cough and pull out the assignment sheet. He kept his eyes on me.

'So it says we have to write about the connection or bonds between certain organisms that work together, we are then also, supposed to write the link between your partner and you...' I sigh out a long sigh. Really, did they google up "Stupidest assessment task to kill brain cells and force sherlock Holmes crazy"?

'That doesn't sound too bad.' I hear John mutter, I shoot him a look, he catches the meaning and looks down at his hands, resting on his books, twiddling his thumbs.

'We might as well do the easiest if _you're _going to understand anything. The clown fish and the anemone. You should be able to cope with that, you can find the scientific names and what advantages their mutual partnership-'

'Hang on, did you just call me stupid?' johns voice cut me off, I glance up at his face, smile gone, eyes looking angry, offended.

'No, I called you slow, and the fact that it took you that long and still get it wrong doesn't really help your case.' I mumble, tracing my eyes over the paper in front of me. I hear him shift in his chair but doesn't say anything. I look at him, trying to deduct as much as I can. _(1) stain on sport jumper, tacked, landed on his left shoulder, the scared one.(2) he leans on his right, the shoulder is sore, tense, sleeping has been bad.(3) keeps glancing down at his hands, no, at his pocket, phone. Waiting for someone to call. (4) sensitive about intellect, wants to do well, but pressured. (5) dark circles under eyes, trouble sleeping. (6) tapping fingers, left-handed. Nervous. Maybe about the phone call. (7) glances at door, waiting for something. _

'They're not going to be angry you skipped because of your shoulder.' I say, looking at him, his face turns from surprise to confusion and then happy... No, it can't really be happy?

'How did you know that?' he asks, they all do.

'Grass stain on your left shoulder, near the collar, you were tackled. Obviously. Your scar isn't as old as I thought it was when I first saw it, it was deep, you tried to stop it but failed. You're waiting for someone to call as well, you keep glancing at your pocket, the only thing people would want to check constantly that they keep in their pocket is a phone. Your nervous about something, you keep taping the fingers on your left-hand, nervous about the phone call, maybe, or nervous about your team finding you here, with me, after having complained and left about your sore shoulder, you're worried they think you're lying only to see me because you have been standing up for me which is hideously wrong because I don't like you and you don't like me. So I think it would be best if you drop the good boy act and do your work and not try to care how I deduct things about you.' I huff out the last sentence and fall back in my chair. I glance up at him, there was no anger, no disgust or threats to hit me, just a huge grin. WHAT IS WITH THAT DAMN SMILE? He was leaning in, his blue eye pouring into me and filling my body with metaphorical water.

'That...was...Amazing' he says, the gin almost doubling in size. That was strange... Defiantly not expecting that...

'Thats not what people normally say...'

'what do people normally say?' he asks, leaning in closer.

I shrug. 'Piss off' and with that, John almost falls back off his chair in laughter. I smile, a twitch of a smile. He gathers himself. Trying hard to contain the little giggle that might escape. It made me feel happy, almost, to see him smile, made me happy to see I haven't collected another black eye or broken nose.

'So this assignment, we have to write about each other, right?' he asks, his breathing was leveled, he was comfortable, comfortable with me, the "know it all freak".

'correct.' I nod at him. Smiling at me. I was comfortable around him too. He was, so far, the only nice one here, the only one that treated me slightly human, or at least, appreciated the little piece of humanity I have left.

'Well, want to go get to know each other, the gates close at 9, and there's a small cafe down the road... You know, if it'd be better' he say, he doesn't really know what to say, but I understand fine.

'Sure, I've just got to make a call, meet you at the gate in five?' I say, standing up bristly and gathering my books and throwing my bag over my shoulder as I look up to see John smiling, again, and nodding. I nod back and turn the corner and down the hall, far enough to make sure no one could see me, I pace a bit, thinking, thinking about john. What are all these feeling doing? Why is this happening when I see him? His smile? I breath in and out, trying to gather everything together as I pull out my phone to see 2 new missed calls. Private. Which can only mean one thing. Mycroft. I go through my limited contacts list to find his receptionists phone number and hit the call button. It rings twice.

_Hello?_

**Hello this is Aretha speaking, how may I help you?**

_Funny, last time we spoke your name was Alice, then Georgie then Bessie, has Mycroft made some enemies? If you could give me their details i would kindly enough give them his email and where about._

**Oh, Mr. Holmes the younger, so good to hear from you, I'm afraid you brother is out at the moment, can I give him a message?**

_Yes, tell him to piss off _

I hang up and walk towards the gate.

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_**Found at the end door, near the gate**._

Pools of blue silk, reflecting the stars like an ocean does at midnight. Dark pupil, a black hole, surrounded by beautiful shades of almost translucent blues, and occasional flecks of dark greys. Like the wisps of clouds in the sky on a summer day. His eyes are magnetic to others, drawing people in, faking innocence.

'Who did you have to call' John asked when I had reached him. He was leaning on the side of the gate, his sandy-blonde hair messy, probably because he was wearing a different jumper now. Knitted and covered in different shades of orange, it was absurd, he looked like a pumpkin. I tried very hard to keep a straight face but somehow a short laugh came out and left John looking absolutely confused. I hold a hand up as I try to regain breaths, I'm pretty sure I pulled a strange face because John joined in, chuckling along side with me as we tried to escape the boundaries of the school.

'I know, I look like a pumpkin, but a bloody great looking pumpkin if you ask me.' he said, as we gained our control over our breathing. We had slowly walked down to the cafe in a comfortable silence, keeping our distance before sitting ourselves down at a table inside the old store.

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**So, tell me about yourself.**

_There's not much to say really. Family is always busy so they sent me here. That's pretty much my life story really, sending me away when they don't want to deal with me._

**Yeah me too, but you've probably already "deducted" that.**

_It's not a magic trick that I can just turn on and off, I need evidence, like a crime scene. I need to be given a back story...it's just most back stories are boring and the narratives lack detail. *sigh*_

**My story is pretty boring anyway...**

_I doubt that._

**Why? You said earlier I was just a stupid footballer.**

_You are._

**So, why do you want to know about me?**

_I want to pass biology because unlike you, I take my academic seriously._

**Why do you always do that? **

_Do what?_

**You think you know everything about everyone but you really don't.**

_Don't I?_

**No.**

_Then why don't you prove just how wrong I am by telling me about yourself._

**No, you tell me everything you can tell about me and then I will tell you if you're wrong or not.**

_Fine... You're left handed, but you stir your tea with your right because your father did, he died a few years ago and had always wanted you to play professional football but you don't like the sport, in fact, you couldn't care less. Your team mates don't like you, partly because you're better at playing foot ball than that are, mainly because you stood up for me. You are close friends with Lestrade, he went to your primary school and your fathers were friends but since your fathers death you've fallen apart, maybe because he felt like you pushed him away, maybe because he liked your brother. You like science, your in my biology class which means you either need it to pass this year or you actually enjoy it, I would say enjoy because of the incident yesterday, you acted professional, you could see the damage and acted swiftly, you're used to violence. Maybe you were bullied at school, maybe because of your outrageous fashion choices, or maybe there was a domestic violence in your family, maybe your brother hurt you, or more likely your father abused your family, which brings us back to your football, you don't want to play it because you think you don't owe your father anything. So your next preference would be doctor, you seem good enough anyway.'_

_*sigh followed by a silence*_

**You guessed that, most of it anyway, it's what you do, you guess things.**

_No I don't, why would I do that?_

**Because you're an idiot...**

_*small grin*_

_Was I wrong? About anything?_

**Your were right, completely right.**

_Really? I don't always expect to be right about everything._

**Except Harry is my sister, not my brother.**

_Sister! There's always something...sister?_

_*Chuckles*_

**So, what else do you want to know?**

_I don't care, just what ever normal people talk about when needed to write about each other after a few weeks of working together._

_*sarcasm*_

**Well, my favorite color is blue, I have a sister, she is trouble, but she is family, I have to love her. My dad died a few years ago, car crash, I was with him, that where I got my scar. I don't like football and I wanted to do something with a science background, i really don't know anymore... But that's pretty much all. I like jumpers, my lucky number is 48 I don't even know why, you probably think I'm even more of a retard.**

_You should become a doctor, your not half that bad..._

**Thanks but how di- oh, never mind...We should be off, same time tomorrow, here?**

_Yeah, but you go ahead, I need to stop off somewhere._

**Okay, see you soon.**

_And John? _

**Yes.**

_I don't think you're dumb._

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_**Found at the front gate**_

I recall the tears

And broken hearts,

The crushed hopes

And forgotten promises,

The fake smiles

And worried glances.

It's all I do remember.

I can't ever remember loving you,

And I'm not sure I even did.

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'Sherlock?'

My eyes flutter open, I was draped over the desk chair.

'Sherlock?' there was the voice again.

'The doors open' I say, closing my eyes again. My room was dark and my eyes were heavy, insomnia is hitting me hard these days. My door creeks open and I hear the shuffle of feet. Only one person, well built. Plays sport. Can't be Anderson, he's too fat, and it can't be Lestrade, the team supposedly went out tonight. Which only leaves one person who would bother coming to speak to me.

'Can't sleep John?' I say, still not opening my eyes.

'how did you- oh, never mind... I was um, if you don't mind, Lestrade is drunk and locked me out of the room, I wouldn't have bothered you if I had anywhere else to go, but I was-'

'Yes, you can stay tonight' I mumble.

'Thank you... Uh so just this bed?' he says, I peer over at him and scan my eyes over him. He's wearing old track pants and an old singlet. I heave myself up. I watch as John shifted awkwardly as I turn behind him to close the door and the swiftly move to collect the piles of books on the spare bed and throw them onto mine with my violin and bag.

'Just this one, do you need another pillow or...yep...' I didn't stumble, not at all, nope. I was just tired, that's it, it's all, the insomnia...

'I'm fine, thanks though...um, that's a... real skull' he points to the one sitting on the windowsill.

'friend of mine...well I say friend.' I put in a smile before turning away and went to lie on my bed. I look over to see John slide under the covers. He gets comfortable before looking over at me and smiling the damn smile and saying goodnight as I switch off the lamp.

I listen to the breathing

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_**Found at the trail from the back of the school.**_

There were times when I wondered where your mind goes as I feed you particles of truth for you to swallow, gently handing you pieces of me that have been brushed out and forbidden from conversation but I craved the freedom of honesty, for someone else to know, for you to know why I couldn't get out of bed those morning and why broke my promises to a dead father. I could explain it all away but you would see me differently, perhaps and I don't know if keeping track of my phrases for your benefit is maybe better than to have you shroud me in your worries and regrets. But you don't really care anyway.

I pull the cigarette to my mouth and suck in the smoke, letting it fill my lungs and throat before releasing it into the grey sky. Days have become longer and dull. I let the rest of the cigarette fall to the ground and push it into the dirt with my shoe. I pull out the little note book and push the paper inside with the rest. I don't know what it is about them but I find them interesting, like a crime scene, a mystery. Maybe someone was testing me. I have begun looking for them now. Searching in places the writer might have left his works. The school bell rings out, lunch has finished, which mean forth period is about to begin. Which means John.

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**Hey, Holmes, over here.**

_Hi..._

**So, thanks, you know, for last night... I didn't hear you leave this morning?**

_I went for a walk_

**You always walk in the mornings?**

_Sometimes_

**Oh, right...**

_*silence as Mr. Taylor walks in*_

**I didn't see you at breakfast today, don't you eat or something?**

_What day is it?_

**Thursday?**

_Good, then I have a few days _

**A few days till what?**

_Till I have to eat_

**Sherlock you need to eat.**

_I do when it's necessary_

**It's always necessary!**

_No it's not. One can go a while without eating._

**You have to be kidding me**

_No I'm completely serious_

**You are an odd one.**

_Took you a while._

The rest of the period was a blur. John moved to sit with his "friends" and I sat in my seat, writing the out all the things I know about sea anemones and the clown fish before the bell goes and I almost sprint out.

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_**Found outside 221 dorm room, A.k.A my room**_

Everything I write is in fragments, for the last few days I've been scribbling half sentences on the corners of my mind but feeling nothing, not even dread under the mechanics of survival that are taking all my strength in avoiding questions, evading those tilted head looks, the strained smiles and the search for polite conversational topics that skip past any possible reference to loss or sadness but the truth is that no one ever knows what to say anymore and neither do I as I have run out of ways to explain that I am tired, confused and numb yet still quite painfully alive.

I decided I should eat. And by eat I mean consume something, by something, I mean coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. The only problem I have with that is the entire school all sitting in the one room, breathing in the same air, oh god it is so hateful. I change out of my uniform and put on the first things I see. Black pants and an equally black shirt, grab my bag and head off down the hall towards the noise that bellowed out from the room just ahead. I brace myself for what's behind the doors and pull out my phone to pretend I'm actually busy. I walk in and ignore the whispers and sneers, the comments from others that really don't do anything other than make fun of others because their lonely or angry. I walk to the counter to the canteen, the old lady smiled and I twitched my lips up a bit as I order my coffee and move to the side of the counter to wait. I started to go through my phone. 26 messages and 45 missed calls, all from my _darling _brother. I go through each one, deleting them without a glance at the message itself. There was a call of my name as passed me my coffee and I walked off, still deleting the messages as I glance down a little too late to see Anderson's leg poking out to trip me. I fall and drop my phone as I grab onto the table beside me and my coffee spills over my hand, burning it, and god dammit it was painful. I tried not to show any pain in my face as I straighten myself up and grab my phone from the ground and wiping my coffee stained hand on my pants, I glance up to see Anderson and Sally laughing as Lestrade and John shot them looks and John almost slapped Anderson as he stood up to stand next to me. Glancing over me with those unnaturally blue eyes.

'Are you okay?' he ask, he was concerned but he tried his best not to show it and tried to hide his pity with a smile.

'Im fine, I don't need your pity.' I snap back and push past the crowd of laughing students to my room and throw my bag against the abandoned bed and collapse against my desk chair in utter exhaustion. I pull out the draw from my desk to see a little razor that had once controlled my time here. I pull up the sleeve of my shirt to expose the old scars and place the sharp edge onto my skin and let the drops of crimson liquid flow out from my veins, not enough to kill me, just enough to feel something.

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There was a knocking at the door.

'Sherlock, are you there?' I hear the unforgettable voice that is John Watson. I quickly cover my arm and hide the razor under a few books and sit back in my chair to act as though everything was fine even though it was far from it. I sigh.

'the door is open.' I say as the boy behind it shifts awkwardly before tuning the handle and sliding in. I put my hands under my nose and closed my eyes as he stood in silence, unsure what to do. I sigh and shoot a look at him except he isn't looking at me, but rather looking at the blood soaked shirt I was wearing. Shit. How stupid can I get, I left the fucking shirt on... Really? Fuck. I would have preferred Mycroft to come in and send me home than _this._ I lower my arm to cover the blood stains and avoid his searching looks.

'what is that?' he asks he moves closer but is hesitant, I don't need this, really, can someone just kill me now?

'Nothing, old shirt.' I say, not turning to face him. He doesn't reply so I continue.

'Is this about the assignment because it is due next lesson and so far all you have done is sit on your ass and talk about silly things like foot ball and, I quote, '_easy bitches_' and I have already written up about the clown fish and anemone. And I am yet to write about our... _Connection_... So other than me writing about how you threatened Anderson a few times and then give me pity I really have nothing else to go by...' I look over at him, he seems terribly out of place. I really don't blame him, most people are when they come into this room. He sits on the edge of the bed he slept in only a few nights ago.

'Pity? Holm- Sherlock, I don't pity you, far from it really, I envy you, you're amazing, brilliant and extraordinary and the fact that everyone else is just threatened by that just pisses me off and it makes me even more sick to see you doing _that_ to yourself when you can do so much better.' he nods the my arm. He was telling the truth, the utter, bare truth, for once in my life someone is actually telling _me_ the truth. I am shocked. I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out so I swallow hard. What was there to say? He seems to understand my confusion and continues.

'You don't be many people standing up for you, do you? Listen, I don't expect you to agree but if you want go be friends, or come to an agreement, it would make me feel better for all those times I just watched you being beaten from the idiots I call friends. I know you probably don't want to be friends with some idiot Football player but if you want to maybe, hang out sometime, it's okay if you sa-'

'Im free later tonight, most of the school have gone home for the long week-end, I believe the majority of the people left here are going out to some new party at the bar after the new ID maker has reached school, unless you rather do that. The library will do fine, six o'clock' I cut him off. He doesn't wait to think about before he nods his head frantically with his goofy smile from side to side of his face. I nod back to him letting my mouth slowly form into a smile. He gets up still smiling. Although his eyes keep flickering to my arm. I move in my seat and he gets the vibe that I was slightly uncomfortable with him staring at my arm and he shakes his head a bit.

'It will help me rest if you let me see them' he says quietly. I slowly stick out my arm towards him and he takes my writs in his warm hands and begins to roll up the sleeve to focus his eyes on the fresh cuts. His breaths in deeply. He saw it in my frame, the growing gaps between my legs and the slightness of my wrists as he inspected old scar tissue to admire others work then he looked up at me and said;

'you've lost a lot, haven't you'

I wanted to cry but I couldn't so I swallowed my sadness as it scalded my throat to nod then forced a smile while noticing the sorrow in his eyes as he traced the design with his fingers before he quickly turned to his bag and pulled out a bandage and looked at my eyes for approval, I just close them and let him do what he wants because it is going to change anything. Nothing changes it and nothing gets better, no matter what they say. I hear him rip through my bathroom and peel the plastic off the bandages and begins the wrap it around the broken flesh. I tense my arm as it begins to sting.

'Sorry' he mumbles, barely a whisper.

'How long have you wanted to become a doctor.' I ask. Simple deduction really, his arms and hands were sturdy as he placed to bandage around and he could see they didn't need stitches or he would have told me to go to hospital like the others.

'A while' he says, I can hear the guilt in his voice.

'You're dad would have wanted you to be happy, he probably would have supported you...' I say back to him, I was lying, I could tell his father wouldn't have but people lie about these things, I've been lied to like that too. He knows I am.

'Yeah, thanks...'

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_**Found in the dining room**_

Running fingers over

Faded scars,

The white lines

Look like snow flakes,

And they show a time,

When cold people

Froze your heart.

But now,

I feel it in the warmth

Of your skin.

It is summer

In your soul.

I'm glad that you know

Your not alone.

Holding my now cold coffee, I look around the room, John isn't here yet, probably saying good bye to the rest of the team, making up excuses to why he isn't going later tonight. I pull out my note book and the little black mole skin and place the new poem in with the glue on the floor. I flip through them for a moment, following the slanted letters. The capitals of his writing were big and curled all around the place, his L's and D's are long, as if their trying to reach for the stars. The rest curl and entwine with each other, like they were in desperate need to hold on, like the letters are too scared to be alone, to afraid to let go because if one were to go a stray, the others would be left with an uneasy gap between them. My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket, I pull it out to see who's calling.

_{withheld} _

'Mycroft.' I press the disconnect button and place my phone beside me on the table.

'Who's Mycroft?' I look up to see John is standing behind the table smiling down on me.

'The British government' I say. He seems confused.

'Who?' he asks, settling down in the chair facing me.

'Brother, not really important.' I huff out, quickly wanting to drop the matter completely.

'Brother, you have a brother?' he asks, I really don't want to talk about it.

'I did just say that' I say, dry humor.

'I never knew you had a brother' I he said pulling out a note book and a pencil case.

'You never asked.' I say, he must really be stupid if he can't deduct that I don't want anything to do with my brother.

'Why don't you ever talk about him?' he asks, scribbling down something in his note book. I don't bother to spy.

'You may have noticed, not a lot of people talk to me' I huff out pretending to write things in my notebook but instead drawing circles. He didn't have an answer to that, so we sit in silence for a moment before my phone goes off again. Withheld again, Mycroft.

'You should answer that...' he says, I don't want to, I haven't spoken to Mycroft in months, and he doesn't deserve my acknowledgement.

'I really don't' I say and I hang up. I can see him looking at me in the corner of my eye. He looks away before speaking again.

'Why don't you and your brother get along?' he asks, he doesn't look up from his book when he asks. I don't answer.

'Stole you're smurfs, broke you toy soldier?' he joked, I shot him a look to simply say fuck off as nicely as I could. He didn't seem to understand the glare though.

'Whats he like?' he asks, almost bursting with interest in my life.

'The most dangerous person you will ever meet and not my problem right now.' I breath back at him and continue drawing circles on my book. I was about to ask him something before a group of boys, the football team, burst through the library doors.

'JOHNNNNNNN!' most of them yell as they make their way towards our table. I saw in their walk most of them were looking for a fight. John doesn't turn around but instead watches me as I quickly slide my phone and mole skin note book into my pockets and the note book in my bag before sliding the chair back to leave before they can get a hold of me. John stands too, still watching me as I nod at him and try to move around the mob of boys when a pain shoots through my stomach and up through my ribs. I drop to my knees, holding onto my stomach. I look up and there was another blow to my face. My ears were ringing and my vision was blurred. I try to look around, try to find some way to get away. I look to the door to see Lestrade pulling John out of the room before I black out and collapse to the floor.

—

**John pov**

Lestrade pulled me out of the library and away from the gang of boys who surrounded Sherlock Holmes. I tried to see past Lestrade, the group and I caught a glimpse of sherlocks body falling to the ground, limb and fragile. I try to push Lestrade away but his grip stayed tight around my arms and body.

'Let me go Lestrade, let go of me no so I can go-'

'Go? Go what? Go help Holmes? Listen, the boys have had enough of him and they were planing something big, will you stop struggling and listen to me.' I drop my arms and he loosens his grip and keeps one hand on my shoulder.

'They were planing some big shit okay? I reasoned them out of it but only if they got this chance to teach him a lesson. Just, I didn't want you mixed up in this. Just this once, I don't want to see this happening just as much as you but they're threatening your captain place... You know how they are.' he looks down at the floor and shakes his head. He was telling the truth, he was one of the most tolerable when it came to Sherlock, or Holmes as they refer to him. It doesn't make anything better and peering over his shoulder to see the boys running out of the library laughing just made my blood boil.

'So fucking what, I don't want to be the fucking captain, I don't want to play, I don't even like that fucking sport. I only did it because of my father, that son of a fucking bitch, you know what he did, you know how I suffered how stuck I was and how I couldn't leave the group because they were the slightest bit of stability in my life but right now, I don't know anymore, it's all a scam, that whole team. It's all shit.' I had burned out. I had let all the emotion run through me as Lestrade's grip tightens a bit. He understands. He always has. I look up to stare into his face but was distracted by the shadowy figure behind him, falling into the wall beside him before spitting out a mouthful of blood.

'Fuck' was all that came out of Lestrade's mouth as he quickly went to sherlocks aid. I wasn't far behind him, trying to get the boy to look up from his position, on his hands and knees spitting out blood. I place a hand on his shoulders but he shrugs it off. He doesn't trust people easily, I wouldn't blame him if this is how they treat him after he says something, after he is smarter than them. Lestrade tries to pull him up but Sherlock squirms out of his hold and pulls himself off the ground, he was unsteady and almost fell into the wall beside him. He didn't face us, but his shirt was soaked in blood, this couldn't be good. How can he just go along with this? How can he just take punch after punch without another word? How do they get away with it?

'piss off.' is all he says, he snaps the words over his shoulders before he almost races off down the hall stumbling and almost crashing into the walls. I try to run after him but Lestrade holds me back. I understand why, was I going to do? He wouldn't listen to me. I sigh and look at my feet, our feet, standing around a puddle of blood. Sherlocks blood. It made me feel sick.

'Im just going to...to go to bed...' I say, I see Lestrade nod and he let's me go. He won't be back to the room in hours, it's only seven but I really didn't care.

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I didn't sleep. I did everything but sleep. I laid on my back for hours, thinking about...thinking about everything, everything and Sherlock. I thought about the pain, the way he spat out the blood. The _blood._ There was so much, too much blood. Lestrade cam back a few hours ago, drunk out of his brains and won't wake till three pm tomorrow. I decide I need to get some air, to go for a walk. To breath in this place. I throw on one of my beloved jumpers and a pair of old jeans and exit the room silently. The hall isn't as dark as i thought it would be. I begin to make my way down the deathly silent hall way and stop down the stairs to the common room when I heard music. I followed the sound along the corridor and into one of the old class rooms. They only used these for emergencies and nothing else. I open the door slowly and quietly and stood the door way looking in.

Sherlock was standing by the window, facing towards the street and playing beautifully. His long figure seemed unreal under the pale light of a winter moon. He was devoted to playing, and his music hypnotized Me, I wasn't even aware of time anymore. Everything was silent while Sherlock played, as if the entire universe was trying to listen.

He played Bach and Dvořák, then he moved to Sarasate and then he played some pieces that I was unable to identify, that were possibly compositions of his own. His fingers moved as if dancing over the neck of the violin, the notes filled the air. Sherlock played for a very long time, it seemed he was lost in the music and had drawn me in too. He never turned around to face the door, just the window that looked out to the town, the flickering lights of the city. He stopped playing and lowered the bow and violin from his chin and stood in the dark for a moment before sighing heavily and bending down to place the violin in its case when he caught sight of me. He stands up slowly, avoiding my eye contact and keeping his gaze on the violin case in his hands before he throws it over his shoulders and mumbles something.

'How long have you been standing there?' he still doesn't move his gaze from the ground.

'when you played Bach and Dvořák and Sarasate and then you played stuff I didn't know...' I lean against the door looking at Sherlock's frame. He was tall, no doubt about that, he was extremely skinny, far too skinny. Probably because of his strange eating habits. And I couldn't stop the thought that he was one of the most attractive men I have ever seen.

'That stuff you didn't know was mine, you might as well be glad to know you're the first one to hear me play it.' he faces me and I got a glimpse at the battered and bruised face that was looking back at me and i felt as though I had kicked a puppy because if you look past the ignorance and stubborn comments, when you look into the grey blue eyes, he was just a child. A small, lonely child that was abandoned by everyone that laid eyes on him. It made my blood boil to see, to have witnessed someone hurting him. To have after kicking the small puppy, picking up and throwing it in front of a train. His face softened and he seemed confused and I realized I had tears streaming down my face.

's-sorry...' I wheezed out before I turn and run back to my room to die...

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_**Found in the canteen**_

Every morning felt like Sunday in his bones, endless weeks missing falling through the gaps of his ribcage with stolen notes to land upon his heart, 'you will always be alone my dear' one said and he agreed, double locking the front door, bolting the windows because it's easier not to be loved by anyone than not to be by someone in memories with their fingerprints still on his skin, bruised never evers behind closed doors and idle hands reaching out for theirs and finding nothing until he stopped looking, he stopped seeing and sat in-between his barricaded walls never to be seen as his own choice rather than be that face in the crowd that no one else remembers or even tries to recall his name, invisible then just as he is now.

I lay in bed, facing the ceiling. I have no intentions on going out today, or tomorrow, nor the day after that. Instead, I go through every one of these little pieces of writing and can't help but wonder if maybe, some of These where about me? I quickly delete that thought. It's absurd, me? Who gives a shit about me? My own mother and father didn't want me, let alone anyone here. I drop the book next to me and reach under my pillow to pull out a syringe and a old razor blade and let my life fall back in its dark cell because theres really nothing out there for me any way.

_[two hours later] _

'get your hands of me Mycroft and shut the fuck up so I can explain!' he had me by the writs, he was absolutely furious, it was funny but I withheld the urge to laugh. He claimed a bit and put on the family trade mark face as if to say "there is nothing wrong, it's all in your head, we are perfect" I despised it.

'will you let go of me and just sit down and-'

'And what Sherlock? Talk? You've never once spoken about your _feelings _since you were only a child, why now? Why should I even listen?' his voice says a completely different story than his face.

'because you're my brother, and I just wanted...' I didn't finish my sentence but took in all the air I could and tried m best to continue.

'I wanted for once in my life for someone in this god... God for saken place to listen to me, to see that I'm unhappy or what ever feeling closest to that I can feel. Just don't, don't send me away, you can take it all and look on my bank records and what ever just don't send me back there, not to a specialist, not back home.' I mumble out. He as silent for a second, this was probably the most we've said to each other for a while. He lets out a sigh.

'What about your arm?' I didn't show him and there wasn't any clear sigh that I was bleeding, which left only one explanation. John. When he came knocking on my door to find it unlocked and a high, bleeding Sherlock Holmes laying on his rooms floor he just had to call up Mycroft. He was standing at the door and hadn't said a word since after I punched him for calling my brother until now.

'I can take care of that, I can move in here and keep an eye on him.' i didn't have to look up to know Mycroft agreed. He stood up from my desk chair and with a nod to John he left. He left me again, in the hands of someone else to care for. Like always. Like everyone else. I let myself collapse onto my bed and shut my eyes hard. I heard John sigh as Mrs. Hudson, not only the woman who brings me coffee but also the dorms keeper, walks in holding a towel and two cups of coffee. I open one eye to see her pass one to John and walk over to me, placing the coffee on the bedside table and then sitting on the edge of my bed and reaching for my bleeding arm. She begins to ramble on about how I should know better and that Mycroft does care and how everything will get better. That it gets better with time. But time had nothing to do with this, the little hands on a clock can't determine my _emotions. _If I had any. John leaves to go explain to his friends what has happened, just to make my life here even worse and then go start to pack his things and me in here. Mrs, Hudson leaves shortly after and I was left to lie in my bed and wait for death to come pounding on my door.

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**John's pov**

'WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE MOVING OUT?' Lestrade's voice bellowed and bounced through the room as I folded my clothes.

'I mean, I'm moving to sherlocks room.' I say, zipping up my bag and turning to face my exasperated friend who hand his hand to his forehead and shaking his head.

'But, where? Why?'

'i told you I'm staying with Holmes, listen, I didn't have a choice, the teachers said that if I don't they will lower my grades, said something about teaching Sherlock some manners, they think I'm making a good impression on him.' I huff out, and lift the bag over my shoulders and gathering the few bits that didn't fit in my bag and juggling them in my grip.

'but..they can't do that! Can they?' he asks.

'Obviously, they can. Sorry mate.' I say before opening the door.

'no, I'm sorry for you.'

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_**Found in the spare class rooms**_

His fingers were pale but not long enough to be considered elegant, he wasn't dainty or one of those boys that you notice on your periphery, there was nothing cutesy here worthy of a second glance, shuffling, head down through the crowds of normality but in his mind people were staring, they knew nothing, all of them and they were watching him to see if he would fall, fall into another set of arms or cower on the ground so he kept walking and repeating rationality in silent mutters, lips quivering trying not to trip over his own shoes until he finally reached home, closed the door to lean against it for a while before he slumped down as his thoughts crawled back into his ears to be released in deep cuts over paper because he bled black ink onto pages, spilling his secrets into lines for others to read between and find him, see him and not be disgusted by it all_._

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It didn't take long for me to get bored and leave my bed, feeling the high leave my body, I grab my violin case and dodge the small crowds of people to the side door, following a small path to the hidden courtyard. No one knows of this place, the side door is always locked and the path is hidden by a rocky wall and I pick pocketed Mr. Taylor when he got infuriatingly annoying so I could see what was behind that door. I watched it for a few days, no one went through it for three weeks... It felt like a few days... Its one of my best discoveries. Teachers can't find me, students can't find me. My brother can't find me and neither can those little pieces of writing. I have over 50 now. All the same pen, same strokes, same _everything._

I sit on the old stone seat that sat in front of a small tree, the walls covered in a traveling vine the sends the remaining rays of light from the day, travel past their leaves to hit the grounds and create patterns. It reminded me a lot of the house we had in France, a place I spent many of my days lazing in the sun. I liked that place, I liked it a lot and I would like it even more if Mycroft and _mummy_ weren't there. I block all the memories I haven't gotten around to deleting and unclip my case to pull out my violin and bow and let everything carry my mind away...

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I enter my room just before twelve and to my surprise the light was still on and one John Watson was un packed and sitting at _my _desk chair holding some paper. He swirls around to face me at the door. His face is soft and kind and warm heartened. Poor man, I wonder what it's like to have to put up with feelings. I roll my eyes and walk to _my_ side of the room and drop my violin on my bed.

'I didn't know you wrote' was all he said and _what?_ And the I realize, he was holding the little piece of paper I wrote on after everyone left. I thought I threw it out... I don't answer so he continues.

"Suicide is far from painless, the process of surviving with that thought in even the smallest crevice of your mind begins to take over every choice you make as you pull away because it's easier and no one will miss you or mourn for you, crying over your bones in a cemetery, on your birthday and the anniversary of your demise, weakened by time but your name is still choked upon and absentmindedly recalled in present tense until everyone realises that you're gone so we just should have ran away just like we had always planned to so that they would curse our irresponsibility as we faded with the tides to toe the line between us and them, us and everything we had given up just to be here but you couldn't wait, still sometimes I see you there anew, sighing in the silence of it all waiting for me to come along but I can't, not anymore because I promised that I would try just like I wish you could have tried for me." who's it about?' he recites the scribbled words without looking up. I feel myself almost screaming inside to rip it from his hands and lock him out of the room. But my body froze in place, on it's own will of cause, I wouldn't allow it to do so. After a few seconds I was able to pull myself together and will myself to blurt something out of my mouth.

'come now John, only a few days ago I admitted how you weren't dumb, I was hoping would would be a little faster and not bore me with questions you know the answers to.' I pull off my jacket and hang it off the side of my bed, grabbing my wallet and phone and small black book from its pockets. He doesn't answer, I don't turn to face him just tamper with my phone. I sigh.

'I'm interested in what you think of it, not the whole ability to write, what it means.'

'why?' he asks. Why does he ask? Why is he here?

'second opinion, helps me think.' I sit on the edge of my bed and face John. He isn't facing me though, he's looking at the paper in his hands, reading it over and over again. I was going to interrupt but he begins to speak.

'Ah...so the first part, its talking about having the thought stuck with you all the time. It's talking about a shadow almost, how you dont- or in this case, try not to notice it, but it's still there, and then it talks about it changing your actions so if you were to creep up on someone, you want to make sure the don't know you're there so moving in a way that they don't see your shadow is and example of that. The second part is about the people It will, or won't affect, how they won't notice, how they think their alone. The third part is talking about someone though. Talking about someone roughly the same age, but the two people grow away from each other, probably after a moment they both had something to do with. Then it talks about responsibility, how the other person left, left you alone and because of that this one person feels abandoned and wants to be accepted back because he's so alone but he can't because he's too afraid of being left behind again so he's trying to continue, to keep going, and just hoping there might be someone else to try with them.' he finishes, holding his gaze at the paper for a moment before looking up at my face.

I nod at him and put on a smile, no, not put on, my body willed itself to do that. He got all of that from what words I said. No, he isn't dumb, no, he isn't a very luminous person but he is a great conductor of light.

'Good, very good.' I get up and dig under the covers of my bed to retrieve my old top and pants I usually wear to bed and move towards the bathroom to change. When I get back, John has changed to the comfort of his bed, he glances towards me as I enter and drop my belongings on the ground and scramble beneath the comforting covers of my bed. I hated sleep, fact. Hated the warmth and slight stupid attachment towards the bed itself? Not fact.

'Going to sleep tonight?' I hear John say as he stretches.

'been a long day.' is all I say as I turn to my side and reach out to turn the lamp off.

'true, goodnight then' he says just above a whisper. I grunt an answer back as I wait for his breathing to slow and he was asleep and drift away myself.

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_**Found on the desk of 221 a.k.a my desk**_

You came here to disappear completely by becoming another face in the crowd, a blurred vision of conformity, thoughtless drones, overwhelmed by how much you wished to become one too so you walked the streets regaling over the notion that no one here knew you or who you were in that suffocating little town where eyes met yours with contempt, followed by whispers so this city was your sanctuary, where you hid from yourself, changed all of your numbers and threw away your phone because you were free from your past but you didn't realize that here is only transient until you lose yourself in back roads and alleyways that lead you further from a real connection as the skyscrapers close in over you with no clear skies through the mist and fog clouding your eyes, stinging with car fumes and the artificial lights adding shadows to your footsteps until you realize that you are lost, consumed by the one place you thought would save you from it all.

And then it hit me. How could I be so stupid? JOHN! John is the damn writer. Why why why why? Why? Shit...fuck. Shit fuck fuck shit. Fuckery. Seriously? This is getting good isn't it? First partners for an assignment, then room mates and now I'm stalking him. Great. I should have guessed, it's all right in front of me. But yet, so unclear. I sigh and pull out my mole skin book. I still want to collect them. I have to. It's my job now. I stick it in and walk out of the door.

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I've finished all the work. All the work except what to write about John. I pull it a note pad and a a pen and begin to write.

_John Hamish Watson, a study by Sherlock Holmes._

I pause. I decide to write two up. One, completely scientific based one, and the other, based off the little notes. I start with the science one.

I spoke about how he is protective, talking about the physical aspect of him, the way he might think, how that has worked with me. I wrote two pages and ripped them off the book and put them in the bin.

_John Watson, a connection study by Sherlock Holmes._

I write it, delete it, change a word. Change it back. And flip through the pages of my mole skin. Johns writings lay side by side, page after page. So begin with the first. My bold and spidery hand writing showing where I found it. I read over them, and begin to write my note to him.

_Born into a world much like every other boy and girl, he had a mother, a father and a sister. _

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'Hey Sherlock, do you know anything about camera's?' Johns voice drew my attention from my mole skin book to the confused face as his holds a box in his hands.

'shouldn't be too hard to understand, pass it here' I lean back in my chair and stretch out my overly long arm to grab the box from him and open it up to pull out a new, old, something. Polaroid. It came with film as well.

'so you take the film and put it in here' I point and he follows.

'then you wind it like so... And voila, camera ready, you have to wait a while for the film to dry when it comes out though or you'll smudge it.' I hand it to him

'thanks, mind if I test it on you?' he asks and I twirl around in my chair to give him one of my best impressions of no. But he takes a photo of me anyway and pulls the camera down to revile one very pleased look on his face. It made me smile a bit. The film comes out and he takes it out to let it dry.

'come on, let me see.' I speak up when he looks at it.

'nope, this is just too good sherl, way too good, this is defiantly a keeper mate.' he says, admiring it with a grin.

'don't make me drug your tea, I will. I did it to Mycroft's cake once.' I say, surprised to sound so happy. He simply shakes his head trying not to laugh as I try to leap forward to grab it he is able to take another photo, dodging me completely. He pulls out the new photo and bursts into hysterics.

'Let me see!' I say in a disparate tone. He shakes his head again, unable to form words between the laughter. I try to jump towards him and steal the photo off of him; but he manages to scramble off the bed and out the door. I take a deep breath in and run after him. Most of the school was out and Mrs. Hudson was probably sleeping. It was only getting dark now. We run, me following him down the hall and out the back door to the field to where I saw John was slowing down and I took my chance. I almost leaped toward John and tackled him to the ground. I fall on top of him and grab the photos before rolling to the ground next to him. We didn't say anything just kind of giggling like mad people and breathing in hardly.

'you're mad, Sherlock' he says, he sits up.

'No shit.' I answer and sit up too. I was looking out across the field and towards the border of the school, surrounded by trees. None of the other students go there, some rumor about it being haunted, it's absurd. I hear John move around and stand.

'who's that?' he asks and I turn to see him point towards a boy with black hair running towards us. I hear a voice, a thick Irish accent and a shiver runs up my back.

'OHHHH SHERLY' I stand up, John gives me a confused look, I shrug and turn my attention to the boy that was now in front of me.

'been a while Jim.' I put on my brothers face, god dam it. He puts out his hand, I take it and he squeezes tightly and held on too long to be comfortable.

'Jim, is it?' John asks, Jim puts out his hand to take johns.

'it's actually James, but call me whatever, darling' he winked, John looked as if he almost choked. Can't blame him.

'ah...so,um, you an-d sher-lock are friends?' please John, don't act so surprised.

'oh yes, darling, Sherly is a good friend of mine, isn't that right?' his attention on me now.

'well, let's just say that sometimes my mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense them with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. And Jim, here, was the artificial stimulant a while back.' I say, I see John nodding in the corner of my eye.

'tut tut tut, Sherlock, don't be so rude' he spoke the last words in a musical tone. 'now, this has been fun! But I have to get settled in before classes, toodaloo!' he winks again. As soon as he was gone, John turned to me to say something before he stopped himself and began to yell;

'SHERLOCK, FOR GOD SAKES, BREATHE!'

I hadn't even known I was holding onto it. I let out a long breath and turn to John.

'thanks.' I say.

'so...' he begins, I cut him off before he can ask about what just happened.

'John, I'm actually gotta be somewhere, see you back at the room. Bye' I start moving, leaving John dazed behind me. I needed to breathe. I needed to relax. I need my damn violin.

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I had made it to the hall without being found and kicked in by someone. I ducked into the bathroom there and almost broke down immediately. Heavy breathing, shaking hands. My body was betraying me. I throw off my jacket, phone, book and wallet out on the ground with it. I put my hands on the sink and look down, shutting my eyes tight.

Why was James Moriarty back? I thought this was done. He had killed. He had turned bad...he was good, was he good again?

I couldn't think. Couldn't focus, I didn't even hear the loud voices and stamping of people coming into the building until it was too late.

'So John, what's it like living with the school freak?' I hear a voice say. John was here. I quickly race to grab my coat and run the a cubical. I heard laughter.

'yeah, it's alright' I hear John say.

'he hasn't tried to fuck you, 'as he?' another voice said. There was a collective "yeah, hahaha"

'I don't know, been too scared to even close my eyes with him around' I hear John say.

Another collective "yeah"

'you know what we should do?' I hear someone say.

'what?' the rest answer.

' we should totally prank him big time, like, tie him to the goal posts naked at night or something, what you say, boys?' the first voice says and there was a mumble of yes's and agreements. I shouldn't be so surprised, but a part of me wanted John to stop this. To say no. But he didn't. He is like everyone else. The subject changed as words came around to speak of how tommy rhinestone managed to get two twins at once down at the "Irene's residence" and then the voices lowed and footsteps faded and the door closed and I fell to the ground and tried very hard from caring. But I did. And it hurt.

I made my way out of the bathroom to see the crowd of boys waiting for me. John, standing in the background of the mob. I knew what was coming. I take off my coat and place it on the floor beside me, stand up straight, and wait for the first blow. And they came. One after another. A tangle of limbs, kicks in my stomach, punches to every other part of my body. I couldn't out up a fight. I was numb and bleeding on the floor by the time they backed away. My eyes going from unfocused to focused again, watching the ceiling beginning to spin before John's face came into focus. I heard the taunts from the others.

'come on John, finish him off!'

'punch him in the gut!'

'NO, the face!'

One collected "yeah"

I placed a hand in front of my face and watched as he pulled back and a pain broke through my body.

They left me to bleed on the floor, and I couldn't care less.

I blacked out and hoped I wouldn't wake up.

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There was a pounding in my head when I became conscious. I tried to sit, the room was dark, but a pain broke through my body. I tried to look around. I was in my room, John wasn't here. Good. Maybe Mycroft has him locked up somewhere.

'no, Mycroft didn't come, unfortunately. I would have liked to see him pull away Johnny boy.' Jim's unmistakeable voice came out. Of cause.

'damn' was all I could get past my lips.

'here, keep your fluids up hun' he said, sitting on the edge of my bed and passing me a glass of water. 'then again, I could always shoot them for you.' he nodded towards his famous hand gun, resting in my desk. I wasn't surprised to see he still had it. Not after what happened with victor.

' I should be going actually, but remember, if you need anything, I'm just down the hall.' he said kindly, it was the old Jim coming through there. The one I used to know.

'thanks, James' I whisper.

'shhhh, my pleasure darling, I'll be seeing you tomorrow.' he says and leaves. I didn't even care when I saw his gun still on my desk.

I forced my painful body out of bed and had managed to sit up on the edge. I saw my coat and uniform folded on my desk chair, the black moleskin book, wallet and phone sitting next to it.

I didn't have anyone but Jim left. I didn't have my drugs or razor with me and I didn't want to have to face tomorrow.

I checked the book, there was a new poem, Jim probably found it and put it in there. He's smart, like me, we aren't very different.

His hand writing is still the same as it was.

Found on the hall wall, near your room, darling.

tensed at your raised hand

Subconsciously

Waiting for the blow

That would never come,

And it pained me

When I saw the hurt in your eyes.

Oh, love,

That pain should have been mine,

I knew you would never hit me,

He just stole away

A lot of my time.

I promise,

Soon,

It will all be alright.

I placed the book down and reached for the gun and my phone. There was one bullet in the gun, Jim, you damn good man. He knew, he always knew. My phone, 30 missed calls, 4 withheld, Mycroft, 27 John h. Watson. 25 messages. All. From. John. I throw the phone next to me and hold the gun in my hands. It felt... Comfortable. It fit nicely in my hand and was a good weight. I placed it to my temple. It didn't feel right when I placed it there, the blood splatter wouldn't seem devastating until the person who finds home turns to the door. Look at me...I must be a freak, I'm about to kill myself and I'm talking about blood splatters. I place the barrel on my forehead, it feels better. I breathe, in, out, in, out. I curl a finger around the trigger and shut my eyes. I was going to.

But there was a pounding that came from the door. I sigh. I drop the gun beside me and move the blanket I was sitting on above it.

'it's open.' my horse voice called out. The was a hesitation behind the door and I look away as the person awkwardly makes their way in. The was a moment and suddenly a loud intake of breath, and I look up to see Gregory Lestrade looking at me in awe.

'oh shit...' was all that came out of his mouth, could've said something a little more substantial, I give him too much credit.

'what do you want Lestrade?' I sigh out, trying to stand. Lestrade took a while but he soon voiced in.

'Woah! Hey don't- what are you doing, shit Sherlock, what happened?' he placed his hand on my shoulder as I balanced myself. I felt dizzy and nauseous.

'John...and the rest of the team' I said, pinching the bridge of my nose as my head began to feel heavy.

'John?' Lestrade's voice echoed me. 'but that doesn't make any sense! He just called me to find you!' he didn't want to know, to think His friend would do that, I can hardly blame him, I know people are clouded by emotions.

'well I'm fine, so you can go now.' I glance up at him. He doesn't move and covers his emotions with a mask.

'I'm not leaving until John gets here, it's what he said for me to do.' he crosses his arms.

'fine, stay all you want.' I make my way back under the covers of my bed, slowly bending down, trying to avoid all physical pain. I swiftly move the gun under my pillow and slide under the blanket on my bed. I place my arms under my head and try to stop my mind from racing with images as john pulled back his arm, the look in his eye before I raised my hand to protect my face. I don't know why I bothered, my body is just transport anyway.

I could hear Lestrade moving about the room before settling on the edge of John's bed.

'will you forgive John?' Lestrade suddenly burst out with. I try to mask everything and attempted at acting as cool as possible.

'Maybe...' I mumble. He doesn't continue with the conversation, neither do I.

Half an hour of silence and tension caused me to move off of my bed with some pain and disapproving glances from Lestrade to the bathroom. I turn the bright light on, making a white walls partially blind me, and close the door behind me. Locking it incase John came back. I stood in front of the mirror, pulling in the person in front of me. Sometimes I stare at him in the mirror for hours, but no matter how long I stare at him, I never seem to find out who he really is. He looks like a living corpse. I see no life in his eyes. I´m sure he must be dead.

My reflection disturbed me. My hair was sticking to my face, paler than usual. The entirety of my right side was bruised, a split lip finished the picture perfectly, I must give them that credit. I pull the loose shirt over my head to reveal a much too skinny body, covered in greens and purples and cuts. I traces my finger over my ribs, some of the formed bruises covering the too prominent ribs. They trace over the white lines along my torso, some long, some short, all self inflicted. I turn on the tap at the sink and grab a hand-towel and place it under the warming water. I hear a door open and close again, John must be back, there wasn't a knock nor any hesitation. I hear a scuffle of feet and an exchange of mumbles before someone crashes through the bathroom door, make that both Lestrade and John crash into the doorway. Lestrade is holding John back but they both soon go limp as they see me standing there awkwardly, burning my hands under the now hot water. Their mouths gape open but neither say any words. I glance at them, my 'mask' on.

'Leave'

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**Johns pov**

'Leave' sherlocks voice was ice cold and soaked in hatred. He doesn't even look at me properly, just move his eyes over us before turning back to the sink. His eyes were an icy green, not like the times where we spent laughing and being happy, just the plain, grey, bitter looks he gives everyone else. I felt myself deflate even more than when I saw his face, the blood and forming bruises, and the movement between his face and hand before I struck him. I felt sick. I felt... I felt like crying but nothing came out. It was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can't feel any worse. I think everybody knows it now and then. But I think I have known it pretty often, too often.

None of us dare to move, I see the hesitant lift and drop in sherlocks lungs. He's too skinny. I can see his ribs from here, he looks like he's dead... And it was all my fault.

He turns to me, his ice eyes staring me down and making me as small as I feel.

'Now.' his voice shot through us both. There was a threat in the sentence that didn't go unnoticed. Lestrade pulls me back and places me on the bed before turning back to the bathroom, mumbling an apology to Sherlock and closing the door before sitting next to me, our bodies both lame.

'well...fuck' was all Greg said. I could only nod in agreement.

It wasn't until an hour passed that Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. Greg and I had sat in silence, listening to the shower and the hissing when he would've stepped it. The whimpers that escaped his mouth. I felt like I owed him my life. I probably do.

He didn't look at us when he came in, wearing a loose shirt I've never seen and an old pair of track pants.

'I'm rea-' I start but his normal, baritone voice cuts me off.

'Don't say you're sorry... you took from me the only thing I had ever counted on, my only certainty was how it would all end, you stole my way out and now I'm stuck here piecing it all back together, guilt ridden with your final thoughts because just saying sorry was never going to be enough.' he finished his monologue and all was left to fill the silence that was eating me away was the uncontrolled breathing in my lungs.

I burrow my head into my hands and pressed my palms into my eyes to stop me from crying. My body shakes and everything I had once known was ripped apart. How could I have done that to my friend?

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry' I repeat it over and over again, the words being swallowed by every sob that manages to escape out of my mouth. I hear a ruffling of clothes and a door close, I look up to see a packed bag sitting on Sherlock's bed. I look over at Greg, he gives me a pitiful look and motions to the bathroom door. He was feeling almost as guilty as I, it was as much on his back as it was in mine. But he didn't hit him. See the door open and close as Sherlock walks out, wearing a pair of black jeans and purple button shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing old scars and new wounds. He doesn't look at us, and throws anything he can get his hands on into the bag, he was about to zip it before he reaches under his pillow to grab something black and metal. Greg was the first to react.

'Is that a fucking gun?' he stands up, fists balled. Sherlock doesn't react, and slides it under a layer of clothes and books, before he zips it up and swings it over his shoulders. He was leaving, and suddenly all the bottled up emotions came out in rage.

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The bag on my shoulders was digging into me, and dam it hurt. I don't turn to see Greg's face when he spoke and began to walk towards the door when an arm grabs my wrist and spins me around to face John. He was angry and then he began to speak.

'I forget yesterdays, the Pulitzer worthy sentence I just had in my reach, or what you wore when I loved you then and every grain of time elapsed before this yet I can clearly see myself as a toddler when I took that fall from the armchair that was labelled an accident with my crimson matted hair, I can still hear my father's voice telling me that I would never be enough and my mother's indifference when I returned six days later to be met without a shred of concern, sometimes I still smell the pungent scent of urine in the hallways, stepping over pipes and flame twisted spoons or the look on my cousins face in final picture taken of her cradling lost hope in her arms, I remember the shapes that iron bar and boot print beatings left in my skin and the first time I was shown how to hotwire a car with the sound of the songs they would sing when they would pull at my hair and rejoice in my tears, I'm haunted by his quickening breath on my neck, the feel of the water from the shower hitting my bruises to wash it all away or the walk home when I came back missing the only true piece of me that I couldn't accept because it was also a part of him, I remember the changing look in her eyes, glazed over until her fists would rise to meet my cheeks and the way my heart fell into my stomach at the turn of keys knowing that I could never leave without her permission, I can still feel my mind race at having not heard from her for days waiting for the call that finally came and the sorry she uttered with her last drawn breath then the way I cried when I realised I would never speak with her again with my trust broken and my world in fragments to the sound of feet shuffling on laminate floors, the declarations that God was reigning over the ward with a flash of my future behind security doors and averted gazes, then the attacks and the twisting of my name into monstrous claims, lost trust to build up again and the way he cried as we waited patiently for her lungs to cave although there are times I can envision the better days but I can't tell you what I did on any day of the week or my thoughts before I was carried to sleep because you just can't choose the memories you keep. And I know, I know these words don't mean anything to you but I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. Please don't leave. You make me feel happy and I don't want to have to feel as shit as I was before you came.' he was looking at his feet, but the grip on my wrist was tighter than before.

'Avoid happiness; After you believe, it leaves. It only hurts you. You can keep the skull.' I saw as my words stung him and I ripped my hand from his grasp and walked out. I will forget. I will forget. I will forget. I will...

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**Johns pov**

Minutes turned into hours and hours into days. Each moment wasted laying on my bed. People would come and go, giving me homework. I didn't leave my bed. I tried to call him. I left him messages. I tried to call Mycroft once. He didn't answer. They never did.


End file.
